


Mirror, Mirror on the Wall

by stardust_made



Series: Mirror, Mirror on the Wall [1]
Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Jealousy, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-17
Updated: 2012-02-17
Packaged: 2017-10-31 08:14:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/341893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardust_made/pseuds/stardust_made
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is having a quiet afternoon at home with his GQ magazine and a cup of tea. That's until he's not—the sitting room at 221B Baker Street fills with people, and one of them rants a lot, and the other looks as if he's stepped down from John's magazine, but turns out to be a Navy SEAL.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mirror, Mirror on the Wall

  
John is grateful, sometimes on a weekly basis, for his service in Afghanistan. All things aside, it’s proven invaluable in an unexpected way—because John did _not_ expect that this would be his life when he was returning home. Yes, he learned some things as a doctor; yes, he learned some things during his military training, too; but it’s his first-hand experience in a war zone that has gone some way towards preparing him for life with Sherlock.  
  
Case in point: One moment John is curiously flipping through the latest issue of GQ magazine—and he would like to add a sub-case in point here, because he doesn’t enquire how the magazine has turned up in their flat. No, because if John started asking questions about the origin and the path that things have taken to end up in their flat, he would be doing that until the cows came home. So he’s frowning at some pictures, wondering what happened to the good, old-fashioned man-about-town look; he’s having a cup of tea and his wildest plan for adventure for this specific afternoon includes venturing out to buy himself another packet of salt and vinegar _McCoy's_ crisps.  
  
Then the next moment, literally three minutes after John finished the article about 3D television and thought nostalgically about his granddad’s black and white TV set, their sitting room is full of foreign people in a variety of heights who wave too many arms and speak too loudly. They also have guns. John considers it some consolation that the guns aren't being waved, especially in his general direction.  
  
The truth is that the foreign people are just two: both Americans. But one of them counts for two people at least, if only for the energy he spreads around with his wildly gesticulating hands. Add to them Lestrade and Sherlock, then throw in Mrs. Hudson for good measure, and when John catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror, he thinks that he’s seen infants look sharper and more clued-up.  
  
“—and none of this would have happened if you’d listened to me,” one of the Americans, the short, blond one is saying, “and you had not let McGarrett out of your sight. So now you have a comatose suspect and what good is that when you need him to talk, huh? What did I tell you? Did I not say to have Steven McGarrett covered? Should I have, I don’t know, written it down for you? Why isn’t anybody taking me seriously when I say these things?” He’s talking to Lestrade, who, John is relieved to see, sports such a dazed expression, it puts John’s to shame.  
  
Meanwhile the blond guy is going on, his shoulders dancing with his words, while his hands seem to conduct his sentences. “You thought I was just being one of those American cops who speak like they do on TV, didn’t you? Is that what you thought? All loud and cocky and trying to be funny—Do not, just…don’t!” He raises a finger threateningly to the other American, who has opened his mouth to say something, but now closes it, thus making the small, grin-like twist of his lips more pronounced.  
  
The blond guy continues his rant at Lestrade. “It was a mistake, my friend, let me tell you that, you should have listened to me. I was not trying to be funny. It would be a grave and, okay, don’t think I’m exaggerating here, when I say, a life-threatening mistake to not be a hundred percent serious where it comes to this man.” He points to the other American again— McGarrett, evidently—and now John has a proper look at him. He’s tall and dark, extremely fit in every sense of the word; in fact, he does look like someone right out of a TV show, and one that has a big female following. He has been looking down at the blond guy calmly, fondly even, which doesn’t go unnoticed—Lestrade is suddenly released from his part as the Audience. The blond guy turns to McGarrett, face growing even more emphatic. “Do you think this is funny?”  
  
“No,” McGarrett says, frowns a little. “I don’t thi—”  
  
“No, because I can see that you have that face again.”  
  
“What face? I’m not having a face. I’m just tired, you know, probably winced—”  
  
“Oh, you _winced_ , is that it? And why did you wince? Because you had to, you just had to launch yourself from one flying boat onto another to do something—” The guy’s voice is rising, just as he raises his hand to warn the other against any interruptions. McGarrett closes his mouth once more and makes an open gesture with his hand, a silent _Continue_ , then watches patiently as the blond guy does continue. “Something not just dangerously stupid, because hello, Earth to planet Ninja, you do not defy the laws of physics, you got that? No, it wasn’t just stupid; it was completely unnecessary because: They. Had. It. Covered!” He underlines his last few words with his right hand.  
  
McGarrett waits for a couple of seconds to make sure there is a full stop at the end of the sentence and says, “There was miscommunication.”  
  
The other guy grins, his face crunching; his tan becomes absurdly more noticeable, now that his bright blue eyes aren’t flashing, but have transformed into two amused slits.  
  
“Miscommunication? What, the Police here are foreign? They speak a different language? Oh wait—we are in England, the motherland of the English language, which, you might find, is being spoken on the island of Hawaii as well, but obviously not on planet Ninja. How is it that—”  
  
“Be quiet,” Sherlock says, swivelling from his chair where he’s been typing furiously on his laptop. The blond guy turns to him, mouth still ajar. “I’m sorry,” he says, incredulous, shoulders going into a _Do that again and we’ll have words_ mode.  
  
“I said, be quiet,” Sherlock repeats, completely unfazed, and turns to Lestrade. “We don’t need Mosley to identify Pauline O’Connor—I’ve got her. As long as he recovers to testify in court you’ll be fine.”  
  
“Excuse me, just because you’re some sort of computer brains, you don’t get to talk to me like that,” the blond one starts on Sherlock. “No one tells me to be quiet—”  
  
“I think someone just did, Danno,” McGarrett says, placid, then his face snaps in pain. “Danno” moves to his side in an instant, holds his elbow, mutters, “Jeez, Steve, what even—let me look. What if you have an internal bleeding—stop wriggling. Will you just—stop—”  
  
“I’ve got some tea and biscuits for you, boys,” Mrs. Hudson says cheerfully, a loaded tray in her hands.  
  
***  
  
John’s previously acquired skills continue to be his salvation. It occurs to him that he is more than qualified to examine McGarrett and he feels humble gratitude that there is something about this whole situation that he understands.  
  
When he says, “Do you want me to have a look? I’m a doctor,” suddenly everyone goes quiet. “Danno” looks at him as if he’s only just noticed John was there, and frankly, that’s insulting a bit above the average, because John is used to people not quite noticing him, not with Sherlock around, and now there’s this McGarrett fellow, who’s obviously the sole focus of “Danno”'s attention, but it’s still John’s flat. He was here first, in the actual room, before they all showed up.  
  
“Danno” looks relieved as he registers John’s words; he pushes McGarrett towards the sofa, then turns to John and extends his hand. “Detective ISergeant Danny Williams, Hawaii Five-0. This is my partner, Commander Steve McGarrett.” John shakes his hand, says his name, and nods to McGarrett who gives him a friendly nod back. Danny Williams continues to speak as he moves back to his partner and pushes him towards the sofa again. He talks both to John and to McGarrett, who answers shortly, trying to get a word edgeways.  
  
“Sit down over there,” Williams is saying. “He might have some ribs cracked—do not interrupt me—how do you know? So now you’re a doctor, huh? This man right here—sorry, John, right? John right here is a doctor; he’s going to have a look—I’m not fussing, why would you say that? Is it not normal to just want to have your partner checked out when he’s thrown himself from God knows what height, from one flying vessel onto another? John, can you explain to my partner how it is a normal human act, something we might say defines our species, the expression of care for each other—What’s with the smile again, Steven? I’m glad I’m amusing you—No, you’re smil—Yes, you were, what do you think, I’m blind? I wasn’t the one flying like some freaking oversized monkey and damaging my brain—Jesus, sit down; you’re in pain, why are you such a—”  
  
“I’ll...just go and fetch my bag,” John says and leaves the room.  
  
The check-up shows that there’s no internal bleeding, no serious tissue damage, nothing worse than nasty bruises and cuts and a badly hurt wrist. “Please don’t take that as evidence that this sort of behavior is on, all right?” Williams says to McGarrett. “Because there is a lot of water back home and I cannot abide this turning into a thing, you understand that?” McGarrett takes John’s running commentary on his condition as if John’s telling him he’s broken a nail; Williams seems relieved, too, and calms down considerably, which makes John wonder what kind of everyday life these people have.  
  
_Who_ these people are John finds out while he cleans up McGarrett and bandages his hurt wrist. John hasn’t heard of Hawaii Five-0, but within five minutes envies them a bit for their special status of _Almost-Anything-Goes_ Crime Fighters…in _Hawaii_. McGarrett speaks about their work slowly and with care, but instantly gets more open and livelier when he finds out John served in Afghanistan. The two check some dates against each other, some locations, too, then go on to talk about events, comparing perspectives, or plainly reminiscing.  
  
John’s sitting on the floor, checking Steve’s left ankle that looks somewhat tender, and telling him the story about the boa, when it suddenly gets a bit dark. Steve, who’s grinning at him—John has the fleeting impression of looking at one of the models in the magazine he was perusing before the sitting room exploded—lifts his eyes and they flicker between two points, above John’s shoulders. John tries to simultaneously look up and behind both of his shoulders, and fails. So, careful not to hurt his neck—brain’s obviously still not functioning at full capacity—he turns to the right, then to the left to find that he has a Sherlock and a Williams looming above him. None of them looks particularly—they both look downright sour. John’s puzzled. He thought he was telling the boa story quite well.  
  
“If you’re quite done with the trip down memory lane, I need you assistance,” Sherlock says, almost through his teeth.  
  
“Erm…fine. Okay,” John says. “With?” he adds.  
  
Sherlock rolls his eyes. “You won’t understand.”  
  
“Can’t Lestrade help?” John looks at Greg to find him busy on his phone. “We’re not done. Need to check Steve’s foot and his other ankle.”  
  
Williams and Sherlock speak at the same time:  
  
“His ankles are fine; he was bounding up the steps two at a time.”  
  
“Well, if you hadn’t dawdled with pointless storytelling, you’d be done by now.”  
  
The two men look at each other, startled, some wariness on their faces. Williams murmurs something that sounds like, “Charming, aren’t you?” Sherlock narrows his eyes at him and then gives him his patent once-over, to which Williams responds by shoving his hands in his pockets and tilting his chin. Sherlock then moves his eyes over to Steve and John wonders whether it wouldn’t be safer to just crawl under the sofa since he’s down here anyway. Because Sherlock’s eyes have gone glassy as he takes in every detail. John knows that face; it means the trip from brain to mouth will be an extremely short one, and while with other poor casualties of Sherlock’s special brand of clever that’s not so dangerous, here there is a bona-fide Navy SEAL, a man who is one chromosome short of a superhero.  
  
But Steve, who can probably press three points on Sherlock’s neck and have him asleep until the end of the month, Steve leans back and folds his arms across his chest, the picture of languid comfort, his eyes not letting go of Sherlock’s. With his peripheral vision John catches a nervous ball of energy next to Sherlock—Danny Williams is almost physically vibrating, and when John looks at him, he finds Danny’s eyes glued to his partner’s face.  
  
John tries not to gape, but it’s difficult with his neck craning up. He lowers his head and turns to look at Steve, distractedly seeking support. Steve turns his gaze down to him, gives him a slow, full-toothed smile, for which John is sure someone else would get arrested, then shakes his head and says, “Thanks, John. Go and help. My feet are fine. We’ll catch up some more later, okay?”  
  
John nods and gets up, finds himself almost chest to chest with Williams; the discovery that there is someone shorter than John amongst his acquaintances has no meaning at all when said acquaintance seems to hold his posture in a manner that implies he’s taller, stronger, and in every possible respect better than John. John blinks at him, confused, and feels his chest expand against his better judgement; he is one step away from growling and pawing the ground, and that’s ridiculous. What is this fellow’s problem anyway? John locks eyes with him calmly, because he is a friendly sort of chap, live and let live, but he won’t be taken the measure of in his own flat. By someone who talks a lot, but John would like to see how he would do if they stepped outside for a moment—  
  
McGarrett stands up at the same moment, in which Sherlock says clearly but quietly very close to John’s ear, “John.”  
  
“Danny,” McGarrett says, and just like that John and Danny Williams aren’t looking at each other anymore.  
  
***  
  
John puts the kettle on and takes the coffee out. He feels that after thirty minutes of listening about human trafficking in its crudest details, it is time for coffee. The thirty minutes were also filled with Sherlock’s voice growing more and more imperious while it delivered his deductions. John has seen Sherlock hyper more times than he can count, hyper and arrogant, too; but hyper, arrogant, _and_ regal is a new combination. It was as if Sherlock was giving a performance. His public was riveted, no doubt about that. John can say with certainty that Williams has firmly filed Sherlock under the nickname ‘computer brain’, but Sherlock did render him speechless, and from his very short, very intense acquaintance with Danny Williams John has reasons to believe that’s nothing short of a miracle. Steve seemed less impressed, his calm, focused demeanour broken only by the odd impressed eye-widening. For some reason his refusal to stay wide-eyed appeared to fuel Sherlock’s delivery—in turn, Williams boggled more and more at Sherlock, genuine amazement flickering over his open, expressive face—and in _turn_ , McGarrett, whispering a jibe in his partner’s direction about picking up his jaw from the floor and being shushed with, “Can you believe this guy?”, grew even more demonstrably deadpan. Between watching them and being swept in the inexorable fire that was Sherlock on top of his game, John retreated in the kitchen cross-eyed.  
  
He is glad all criminals will get what they deserve. He is thrilled Scotland Yard will be able to pride itself on its part in the operation. He is excited that there is an epic international entry coming up for his blog. But he wants to have coffee now. And possibly a little time to think about the strange men in their sitting room.  
  
He’s just picking up the kettle when Williams opens the portal and walks in, then stops in his tracks—he clearly thought John was still in the loo. The two look at each other for a split second, then avert their eyes in different directions.  
  
“I’m making coffee. Would you like some? Or another cuppa?” John says, because the split second was enough to allow him to notice something interesting. Devoid of tall, striking men in his proximity, Danny Williams looks peculiarly smaller—and a bit unwell, a bit rough. Plus John’s holding the kettle right there in his hand.  
  
Williams shakes his head. “Can’t. If I have coffee now, there’ll be no sleep for like another day, and I can’t not sleep. It’s been forty-eight hours.” He rubs his eyes. His pallor is greyish, especially with the fluorescent light in the kitchen. “First the jetlag, then the case.”  
  
John nods. Williams nods back, closes the doors behind him. He rocks on his feet. “I’ll have a beer if you’ve got one,” he says.  
  
John scratches his head. “I think I’ve run out. Check and help yourself.” He points with his chin towards the fridge as he pours water into his cup. “Mind the—” He cuts himself mid-sentence. Williams has almost reached the fridge and now turns and looks at John questioningly.  
  
John shakes his head and says, allowing for some humour to sneak into his voice. “It’s fine. The fridge is fine. Sherlock…He keeps stuff in it that’s not strictly for…for the fridge.”  
  
Williams narrows his eyes suspiciously, and the words _Detective Inspector_ flash in John’s mind. He hurries to explain. “No, no. Nothing illegal—at least not _that_ kind of illegal.” Williams frowns and John sighs. That’s trying to explain Sherlock to visitors for you.  
  
“He keeps body parts in it. Not because he’s made people lose them,” he says pointedly. “For experiments. How long does it take for blood to clot under certain circumstances; nail growth to when the hand was detached from the body; saliva coagulation.” Williams looks torn between disgusted, sceptical, and amused, so John wraps it up. “That sort of thing. It’s fine now—the fridge.”  
  
Williams watches John for a few seconds, chewing on the inside of his cheek, then turns and opens the fridge. “No, it’s not fine,” he says, and shuts it. “There’s no beer in it.”  
  
“Sorry,” John murmurs. “It’s Sherlock’s turn to do the shopping.”  
  
“Really? Him?” Williams points with his thumb in the direction of the sitting room where Sherlock’s voice could be heard, broken by comments from Greg and Steve. Everyone’s quietened down. Adrenaline’s wearing off.  
  
John hums. “Yeah. We’re trying something. When it’s his turn, he does the shopping online. I told him all that data could be useful and it’s all on the screen in front of him.” John shrugs. “I still have to make the shopping list, though. And you know, carry the bags upstairs, because he always chooses a delivery slot when he knows I’ll be home. He, needless to say, is never here during that time.”  
  
A smile blossoms on Williams’ face: bright, sunny, and benevolent, and John suddenly can smell the sea and pineapples, can picture the blue Hawaiian sky right there in their kitchen. He grins back. Williams bounces on his feet again and takes in the kitchen, his eyebrows rising with every inch his gaze covers.  
  
“You’ve got…ah, quite the freakish set up here, with all due respect,” he says.  
  
“Don’t get me started,” John responds, sipping his coffee and leaning on the kitchen counter, putting one foot in front of the other. “But if you go to the bedroom over there, it’s perfect order and socks index.”  
  
Williams face gets all twitchy, as if someone’s released hordes of ants over it. “Tell me about it! We’re in Steve’s house; I need a t-shirt, right? It happens—you sit outside awhile, goof around, sands gets everywhere. Man, let me tell you that—do not go unprepared for the sand! You have some sticky stuff on you, bam, there’s the sand. So I need to borrow a t-shirt, open the wardrobe. First off, no normal t-shirts—everything’s size like gazillion XL—and then—and he will deny that, he says I’m making this up, but you can’t make this shit up—t-shirts, colour-coordinated, right there.” Williams punctuates his words by slicing horizontally through the air with the flat of his palm, arranging Steve’s invisible t-shirts onto invisible shelves. “Shirts on top of them—guess what? Colour-coordinated, too!” He spreads his arms in an extravagant gesture and John can’t help it; his grin turns broader. “That’s the kind of guy we’re talking about. Can’t eat anything with crumbs in his house, either. He frowns at you, might even throw you out, then get to do some vacuuming.” Williams shakes his head.  
  
“At least he doesn’t put some hallucinogen in your coffee—pretending he’s being nice to you by making you the coffee!” John says ruefully.  
  
“No, no, can’t say he does that. That’s mean, that is. Why did he do that?”  
  
“An experiment.”  
  
“Why do I get the feeling—just, something tells me, I don’t know, the tone of your voice maybe—that this experiment thing is an excuse which gets a running far more often around here than it’s to your liking?”  
  
John chuckles now. “You must be very good at your job, Detective Inspector. ‘s true.”  
  
“Danny. And all right, I hear you—you might get the odd vision, some psychedelic figures dancing in front of your eyes,”—Danny’s fingers demonstrate eloquently—“but you can live with that, right? It’s no big deal, in the grand scheme of things. I’ll tell you what’s a big deal, though, something you find yourself unable to put on your list of things to be magnanimous about: getting shot at. Not just getting shot at, but then being shouted at for shooting in an attempt to save your partner’s unthinking Super SEAL ass—not being thanked, I need you to pay special attention to that—being shouted at. Huh? Huh? What’s that about?”  
  
John has never seen anyone with more expressive body language in his entire life, ever. He suddenly wishes he could put Danny Williams and Mycroft Holmes in an empty room together and watch them from the outside. But he has more important things on his mind.  
  
“When I met Sherlock,” he says, “he took off to meet with a serial killer and was going to take a pill that had a 50/50 chance of killing him…because he was _curious_ whether he’d chosen the right one of the two.” John sways his coffee-holding hand to make a point and the coffee sloshes around in his cup, a few drops making it over the rim and onto John’s hand—he’s obviously getting infected by Danny’s wild gesticulations. Danny is at this moment completely still, however, and God, doesn’t it look odd on him?! He’s staring at John.  
  
“You serious?”  
  
“Hmm.”  
  
“Jesus wept. What happened?”  
  
“Um…Someone…Someone shot the cabbie. I mean, the cabbie was the serial killer, the one that was playing the game with the good pill and the bad pill. Someone shot him just before Sherlock could take the pill. Apparently.” John keeps his eyes firmly on Danny’s face.  
  
“Huh,” is all Danny says after five long seconds.  
  
They look at each other in silence. Danny rubs his forehead, shakes his head again, and without looking up, lifts a pained finger.  
  
“McGarrett dangles suspects off rooftops. I mean, okay, they’re scum, no arguing about that, but still. Rooftops. He ties them up on the front of his ca—oh, no, wait—that was me. But—but! He puts them in shark tanks. He says these sharks don’t eat people, but that’s not the point, right?”  
  
John can see where Danny is coming from and nods vigorously to show it. “I have been abducted and tied to various objects seven times in the last year,” he says. “Once, I wasn’t tied to anything, but was wrapped in explosives for a change. _And_ I don’t even work for the police.”  
  
Danny shakes his head, his whole being exuding how deplorable he finds Sherlock’s behaviour—he’s made the obvious connection between these events and Sherlock, of course, without John saying a word.  
  
Silence falls in the kitchen again.  
  
“Steve keeps grenades in cars,” Danny says at last, exhaustion finally freeing up the suppressed half-awe in his voice; the rest is resignation.  
  
John gives him a look of deep sympathy. He didn’t think he’d ever share this, let alone with a stranger. But now not only does John know he can — he wants to.  
  
He swallows. “Sherlock made a record for a month of my ‘patterns of masturbation’,”—this time John makes sure both of his hands are empty when he does the air-quotes, “and supplied the “data” for online research, entering my name and details, the whole lot.”  
  
“So you’re…Not that—I mean, are you two…” Danny stutters, gestures between the sitting room and John, then folds his arms across his chest, before quickly dropping them to hang by his body.  
  
“Everyone thinks we’re a couple,” John says evenly, careful.  
  
“I hear you, man. I go to a bar, get a drink, talk to a nice girl—Steve calls. I talk to him three minutes, three, and wait, wait! Where’s the pretty lady? Gone. That’s when she doesn’t stay to yell at me that I was a jerk for buying her a drink when I was married.”  
  
John’s eyes dart in the direction of the sitting room, where the solid, lean form of Commander Steve McGarrett is visible through the glass. John turns to look back at Danny and catches his eyes jump away from the same sight a little too quickly.  
  
John contemplates him for a moment, then purses his lips and takes a deep breath.  
  
“Um…Do you fancy going down the pub for a pint?” he says.

**Author's Note:**

> My first and likely last crossover, but I had so much fun writing it! First attempt to write anything _Hawaii Five-0_. Beta by the lovely sirona. Original entry [over here](http://stardust-made.livejournal.com/51201.html#cutid1) at my LJ—if you feel like dropping me a line, I'd love it if you do so there, but either way, I thank you for reading.:)


End file.
